


Audentes Fortuna Iuvat

by AnnaFaie



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 10:20:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFaie/pseuds/AnnaFaie
Summary: After the team’s return from Russia, the messages petered off. Gareth isn’t sure why; somehow, he felt he didn’t have much to say. Found himself frightened of imposing himself on Harry, taking too much of his already stretched time. Scared Harry would see the contact as a liability.





	Audentes Fortuna Iuvat

It’s raining. This autumn has been uncharacteristically warm thus far, but today, the heavens have opened up and are gifting London a veritable downpour. Gareth shrugs deeper into his jumper, pulling his feet off the floor and onto the sofa. It’s cold and grey, and this weather makes him want to sleep. He is tired, so tired that he feels he could spend a week asleep and not have enough. His very bones feel too heavy, his eyes almost permanently red and irritated these days. 

 

Shuffling through the piles of paperwork on the sofa, Gareth spots his phone. The sound is off, but it’s blinking with an array of notifications and messages. News, something or other to do with Brexit - like everything these days. A few emails. And, finally, a singular WhatsApp message from Harry Kane.

 

 _Hey_ _boss_.

 

Gareth smiles involuntarily. Harry has been busy, what with his children and an endless agenda of Spurs games. At first, they spoke almost every day. It had become a habit in Russia, checking up on each other when they woke up and before they went to bed. Gareth had become intimately acquainted with the niggle in Harry’s ankle, the sore lower back. Harry would ask after Gareth’s dislocated shoulder. Small, everyday things, thrown in in-between talk of strategies and formations and drills. Then, the messages had petered off. Gareth isn’t sure why; somehow, he felt he didn’t have much to say. Found himself frightened of imposing himself on Harry, taking too much of his already stretched time. Scared Harry would see the contact as a liability. 

 

He sets the phone aside, thinking. The rain is drumming against his window, the sky outside leaden. It’s only gone lunchtime, but it might as well be evening. Gareth yawns, stretches, his back cracking as he does. He needs to run more, stay in shape before the endless weeks of travelling begin anew. The paperwork that he’s been ignoring for days beckons, but he leans back, his head falling onto the backrest of the sofa. He closes his eyes and counts his breaths, and pretends he is not wanting to respond to Harry’s message. 

 

*

 

_Moscow, July 2018_

 

“G-god..” Harry’s breath catches. His feet dig into Gareth’s lower back, back arching as Gareth holds his hips angled just right.

 

Gareth slows, bends to kiss the droplets of sweat off Harry’s forehead. Harry makes a sound of protest, and Gareth drinks it off his lips with teasing little sips of kisses. He wants more of course, he always wants more of Harry. It takes all of his self control to stop moving, but he wants to savour this. His captain taken apart and panting, eyes shut tightly against the Moscow sunlight, powerful chest heaving with jagged breaths.

 

He’s delirious with the taste of Harry, his smell, the dizzying feeling of being in him. It’s disorienting and terrifying, like falling and knowing there is no way to stop your inevitable demise. He’s in a free-fall, yes. Lightheaded, drunk on kisses. Losing control in ways he’s never let himself do before.

 

His hands run up Harry’s arms, pin them above Harry’s head. Their bodies align in a breath-stopping moment of perfection.

 

Harry opens his eyes then, pupils almost entirely black, eyelashes glued together with sweat. Foreheads touch, and they are close, so close, and Harry stares right back at Gareth, doesn’t attempt to hide. It’s almost enough to tip Gareth over the edge, the intimacy of seeing Harry like this, all composure gone, a silent plea on his lips.

 

“Tell me,” Gareth says into Harry’s lips, “tell me.”

 

Harry’s hips tilt upwards, and his eyelashes flutter with the pleasure that small motion brings him.

 

“I want you,” he says, “I want you. I want you.”

 

It’s prayer-like, small and desperate, and Harry’s voice catches a little. Gareth moves, once, burying himself in Harry and eliciting a sharp inhale.

 

“Good boy,” he tells Harry, and kisses him again, and keeps kissing him even as he thrusts, deeper and harder, kissing away a string of curses as Harry comes with a shudder that runs through his entire body. Gareth finds his release mere moment later, chokes on Harry’s name, his face buried in Harry’s neck, body shaking with the intensity of it.

 

Later, they lie tangled in the sheets, too tired and sated to clean themselves up. Harry’s usually perfect hair is a mess, but for once he doesn’t seem to care. He’s reclined on a pile of pillows, heavy-lidded and staring at the fan above them. Their hands are clasped together between them and Gareth is terrified of falling asleep in case this is all a dream.

 

*

 

They meet again for training, and it’s a damp, grey October morning. Gareth stays back, deliberately, chats to Winks and Eric for as long as he can. He can’t ignore the tall figure hovering by the entrance to the tunnel, however, and eventually makes his way to Harry. He seems older, weary, with new lines by the edges of his eyes.

 

They embrace, but it feels odd, stilted, like their bodies have forgotten how to fit together. They pull apart too quickly, and Harry seems tense, his body taut.

 

“You okay? Sleepless nights, huh?”

 

“Yeah, the little one has a bad stomach.”

 

Gareth nods in sympathy, and tries to gather his thoughts. Fails. He’s usually good with words, so doesn’t quite understand why he is struggling now. It’s Harry. Hardly a stranger, after all. The space between them feels cold, the silence becoming increasingly awkward. It all hits Gareth like a gust of freezing air, making goosebumps appear on his skin under the layers of kit.

 

“Sorry to hear that. We’ll start with three laps, yeah?”

 

Harry looks like he wants to say something, but then shakes his jacket off and joins the other boys on the warm-up run. Gareth exhales, cursing himself for being an idiot. Nothing has changed. They are here to train, to win games, nothing has changed.

 

Of course, everything has.

 

He can see the barely noticeable way Harry favours his left leg - his ankle is still giving him grief. He knows that body intimately, knows the small tender place between Harry’s shoulder-blades, the mole on his inner thigh, the precise curve of his spine. There’s no taking back what happened, but he can’t let it spoil things for the rest of the boys.

 

Of course everything has changed. Gareth knows he was delusional if he thought it wouldn’t. Perhaps he was drunk, then, on the hot Russian air and the fans’ adoration and the hope, the sweet, heady hope that had permeated everything in those short weeks. On Harry. It’s all different in the stark London daylight. All of it thrown into sharp view: their age difference, their respective positions, their families. The fear rears it’s ugly head, a suffocating thing, confronting him with everything that was easy to ignore in Russia, when their world contracted to one small hotel room.

 

He is irritable and distant all through the training session, and knows the boys can sense it. Afterwards, Winks clasps his shoulder and pulls him close -

 

“All good, gaffer?”

 

“Excellent,” Gareth lies easily, and summons a smile for the boy. “It’ll take time to gel again. Let’s not lose focus.”

 

He watches Dier and Winks walk away, arms wrapped around each other, laughing as they go toward the changing rooms. He stays back, turning to face the chilly wind, closes his eyes for a moment and attempts to center himself. For a moment, he wishes Harry would come up to him, wants to tell Harry how much he’s missed him. Maybe ask him to go and grab a coffee next time they are both in central London. He remembers that last quiet warm-up before the semi-final, when everyone had left and Harry had held him on the empty pitch, arms wrapped around Gareth’s chest and breath tickling his ear. He remembers the warmth of Harry’s body, the sheer bulk of it pressed flush against him, the quiet words of reassurance they’d spoken to one another.

 

When he turns around, the pitch is empty.

 

*

 

The silent game against Croatia is a fiasco. It’s messy and discombobulating, which is precisely how Gareth feels. He’s sleeping badly, surviving on coffee and energy shakes. It’s not sustainable, and he knows it. Knows that if he is to manage well, he needs to sort himself out sooner rather than later.

 

Harry and he barely talk, and when they do, it’s cool and businesslike. Harry’s civil, of course, but there’s nothing there to indicate the closeness they’d shared in Russia. It’s a different Harry altogether, and somehow that frightens Gareth. Makes him mourn the loss of the Harry he’d known to this aloof stranger. Making him wonder if those few nights in Moscow were just a drunken misstep. If he’d been wrong to infer anything about Harry’s feelings.

 

Two days after that game, he’s sitting in the cafeteria of their training grounds, scrolling through his emails on his laptop, when Eric slides onto the chair next to his.

 

“Have a moment?” Eric asks.

 

“Sure, what’s going on?”

 

“It’s Harry,” Eric pauses, thinking. “Do you know if anything’s happened? He’s been very quiet recently. We’re worried he’s carrying a new injury, or...”

 

Gareth cringes inwardly. It’s all going tits up rather spectacularly, and he can’t but blame himself. He knows Harry isn’t injured, knows because he’s long been reading the supposedly secret WhatsApp group that Winks has called simply “No coaches”. Yes, he can only really blame himself for cocking all this up.

 

“Not that I know of. He’s probably just tired. I’ll see if he wants to keep training light.”

 

Eric looks unconvinced; he always has been rather perceptive. Gareth is saved from further questioning by Pickford, who bounds up to Eric and drags him towards the other boys, firing away something about a video game update.

 

*

 

Somehow, they win against Spain. The game is far from perfect, and they concede at the last possible moment, but they win. Gareth feels alive for the first time in months, leaps up in the air as the whistle goes. The boys hug him as they retreat to the changing rooms, and Harry is last, soaking wet with sweat, his breathing laboured. He stops, looks at Gareth, his face unreadable. They clasp hands, which is a far cry from their usual full-body hugs. A perfunctory and unwilling show of solidarity they owe to the rest of the team, the fans.

 

“You were brilliant,” Gareth says earnestly. “Truly brilliant.”

 

Harry nods, and, yes, there it is - a ghost of a smile tugging at the edges of his lips. It doesn’t reach those blue eyes, but, well, Gareth is willing to take that at least.

 

“Thanks, gaffer. I’ll go and -“

 

“Wait.”

 

They arms fall to the sides of their bodies, and the space between them is filled with unease again. There are a hundred things Gareth wants to say in this moment, and his mind is a flurry of panicked, half-formed thoughts.

 

Harry looks at his expectantly from underneath his eyebrows, distant again. A player politely waiting for his manager to say something, nothing more.

 

“I’m proud of you.” Gareth’s says lamely, and means I miss you. I need you.

 

*

 

November brings more rain and leaden skies. The boys are coming down with injuries at an alarming rate. Gareth dreads opening the sports news in the morning lest he sees someone else has to be taken out of the equation for the forthcoming international matches. He sleeps three or four hours a night and drinks more coffee than he ever has.

 

He travels a lot, too, meaning that the inevitable conversation with his wife and children can be postponed. Has to be. He can’t face her now, not when his thoughts are overwhelmed with work and his brief, fevered dreams with Harry. He wonders if she misses him; the fact that their calls are becoming less and less frequent indicates the negative. He finds he’s okay with that, somehow, and when he realises that an odd empty space appears somewhere deep in his gut.

 

Harry doesn’t make contact, but he seems lighter, happier, in the games Gareth manages to see from the stalls. He is laughing with Dele when Gareth walks into the gym three days before the second game with Croatia, already in his gym kit, all golden hair and tanned skin. He looks rested, healthy. 

 

“Boss!” Rashford yells from across the room, and Gareth is enveloped in embraces.He’s missed these boys, their exuberant, endless energy. It feels like coming home after long weeks apart.

 

“You’re late, gaffer,” Pickford tuts and grins from where he is sitting on the bench-press.

 

“File a complaint with the Underground,” Gareth says drily, which elicits a burst of whoops and laughter from the team. Even Harry is smiling.

 

“Right, so the plan for today is...” Gareth begins. Like nothing has changed.

 

*

 

They win the home game with Croatia - by the skin of their teeth. Harry scores, of course he does, and Wembley shakes with the fans’ screams. When the whistle goes, Gareth is hoarse, and his legs are trembling, and he is quite sure his nails have dug groves in the skin of his palms.

 

Henderson is slumped on the ground, and Gareth reaches him first. Gives him a hand and hauls him up. He can see Dele running towards Dier, who had spent most of the game pacing furiously by the bench. Watches as Dele launches himself into Dier’s arms, the tender way in which Eric holds the boy close. He envies Dele’s youthful openness. The honest adoration with which he looks at Eric. The unbridled, fearless emotion that permeates everything Dele does.

 

“Gareth,” he hears a familiar voice. It’s Harry, dishevelled and smiling, his voice also barely audible from the screaming and the arguing over the last 95 minutes.

 

Gareth doesn’t give himself time to think.

 

He walks over to Harry and takes him into his arms, bunches the wet fabric of his shirt in his fingers. Harry stiffens for a second, but then laughs, and it’s a warm, throaty sound. His arms go around Gareth’s neck.

 

“We need to talk.” Gareth says, and Harry cocks his head to one side, and nods, slowly, deliberately.

 

“Give me 30 minutes.”

 

*

 

They don’t make it out of Wembley until nearly midnight. There’s the team debrief first, then press, then everyone who wanted to congratulate them as they tried to make their way to Harry’s car. No-one thinks it’s strange that Gareth and his captain are leaving together. Of course they would: they need to discuss the upcoming games and additional call-ups to replace those who are injured.

 

Harry’s car is clean and still smells new. They drive in silence, listening to a radio channel playing a recap of the game. When Harry glances across at Gareth, he’s smiling, and Gareth is too, and it’s a familiar moment of mutual understanding that makes Gareth’s heart ache with longing. There’s very little traffic, and Harry’s hotel isn’t that far. Thankfully, there’s underground parking, so they manage to avoid the receptionists and any late-night stragglers in the foyer.

 

Harry leads the way to his suite. Opens the door, stands back to let Gareth in. The room is tidy, a couple of kit bags sitting on the sofa. The only sound is the quiet whir of the air conditioning keeping the room pleasantly warm.

 

“Drink?” Harry offers. Gareth raises an eyebrow: he has a strict no-alcohol policy for the team.

 

“Oh, for god’s sake. I’m going for a Diet Coke, but there’s...”, he opens the minibar and peers inside, “some crap red wine?”

 

“A Coke would be great.”

 

He hovers awkwardly as Harry pours their drinks, takes his glass without touching Harry’s fingers.

 

“You wanted to talk,” Harry reminds him.

 

“I’m sorry.” It’s not perfect, but it’s as good a start as any. “I behaved horrifically after we came back. I realise you were trying to get in touch and I was, well, frightened, I suppose. It all seemed so surreal in Russia. Coming back was a reality check and I wasn’t sure you’d want to continue...”

 

“What, having sex with you?”

 

“Yes, I guess so.”

 

Harry runs a hand through his hair.

 

“I thought you were busy at first. Didn’t call you. Then I did and it went to your voicemail. You stopped answering your messages unless they were about work. So I thought you’d changed your mind. Maybe I wasn’t good enough: I’ve been told that often enough to kind of get used to it.”

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

Gareth feels numb. He knows he should be angry at himself now, but he’s too exhausted to do anything except reach out for Harry’s hand. Harry doesn’t take it.

 

“Gareth, you’re married. You’ve been married for a long time. For all I know, Russia was just a mistake for you. And I’m...” He looks down at himself, shrugs. “I’m just me.”

 

Gareth isn’t quite sure what to say. His breath catches, his heart missing a beat. He’s quite suddenly cold, and he wants to claw at his numb skin just to feel something other the bone-deep weariness that has been hanging over him ever since his return to England.

 

“It’s never been about my wife,” he says, “and it’s never been about men. It’s not men, Harry, it’s you. Just you. Always has been just you.”

 

Harry looks startled. His eyes dart up, meet Gareth’s, and they are wide. His lips part, but Gareth interrupts him.

 

“So when you say that you thought you weren’t good enough...you were more than I could have ever imagined. You made Russia so much more than it would have been for me otherwise. Whatever happened between us, I want, I need you to know that you will always be good enough, and more. I was scared. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have ignored you like I did. I tried to run away into my work because I could’t face everything happening here,” he points at his head. “You came into my life and turned everything upside down, and I was frightened. I’m sorry for that. I truly am.”

 

Harry stands and turns away, cradling his glass in one hand. Gareth waits, lets a few heartbeats pass before walking to his captain. He is close, close enough to touch Harry, wants desperately to put his hands on Harry’s shoulders.

 

“I missed you,” Harry says quietly, “I missed you so much. I missed holding you at night, I missed your voice, I missed our conversations. You were there and there you weren’t. A fucking black hole of nothingness. And I could only blame myself. For fucking it all up again.”

 

Gareth touches him in the end, a placating hand on Harry’s neck. He doesn’t think there’s anything he can to make any of this better. The anger in Harry’s voice makes him want to flinch away, but he steps closer, into Harry’s space until their bodies are almost touching. It would feel easier if the anger was directed at him; except it isn’t, and in typical Harry fashion the younger man is angry at himself. That’s the most painful thing about the situation. About the way Harry’s head hangs low, the rigidity of his body.

 

“What can I do?” Gareth asks, simply.

 

Harry doesn’t respond as first. Seconds pass, minutes. Then he exhales, a sharp, desperate sound, and all but launches himself into Gareth’s arms. He edges even further into Gareth’s embrace, like he’s trying to mould into him, desperate for contact. He is shaking, and Gareth isn’t quite sure if Harry is crying, or laughing, or both. He draws circles on Harry’s broad back, light and comforting, kisses the gelled back hair and murmurs something inconsequential.

 

When Harry looks up, his eyes are damp, too-bright with unreadable motion. He kisses Gareth, and it is an angry thing, all teeth and quiet hisses and choked back sobs. His lips are salty with his tears. The fingers on Gareth’s back dig into his skin, and he’s sure they will leave bruises, but lets Harry claim him, lets that pent up anger run its course.

 

He feels Harry grow slack, eventually, hands loosening their grip until Harry is leaning bodily against Gareth. Their foreheads are touching, breaths mingling into one. Gareth’s hand makes it way to Harry’s cheek, and Harry nuzzles it tiredly.

 

“Lie down?” Gareth offers. Harry looks at him with unseeing eyes and nods uncertainly. He lets Gareth lead him towards the bed, falls onto it in a heap. By the time Gareth walks around to the other side, Harry is already asleep.

 

*

 

He lets Harry sleep in the next day; lies to the boys about some work emergency that has taken Harry out of training for the day. When he returns to the hotel at noon, Harry is sat on the sofa in a white fluffy dressing down, a cup of coffee and a laptop in front of him.

 

“Hey,” he says, smiling, and it’s the real, open smile Gareth thought he might not see again. “Sorry about last night.”

 

“Nothing to apologise for. How are you feeling?”

 

“I’m alright,” Harry answers automatically, then pauses. “I think I’m...actually alright.”

 

He rises, watches Gareth set his kit bag and laptop case aside.

 

“What are you plans for the day?” Gareth asks.

 

“I’ve cleared it with Poch. I can stay here...if that’s okay?”

 

Gareth nods, a sliver of hope blooming in that place where there was only grey emptiness before.

 

“I’d like that,” he says. Smiles at Harry lopsidedly. “Lazy arse.”

 

Harry laughs, lowering himself back onto the comforter and stretching.

 

“Come here.”

 

Gareth kneels on the sofa between Harry’s legs, Harry holding him by the waist as they kiss, slowly this time. Getting to know each other again in the harsh London daylight.

 

“Never be afraid again,” Harry says when they come up for air. He squeezes Gareth’s waist for emphasis. “Y’hear me? Never be afraid again.”

 

For the first time in months, Gareth ignores his buzzing phones. For the first time in months, nothing else seems to matter. And, he finds, he really does fancy being brave. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Audentes fortuna iuvat = fortune favours the bold (Latin)


End file.
